In the mirror, I saw a nervous bride, torn between two dads for the aisle walk.
Trying on my heavy white dress, I felt like a porcelain doll, beautiful yet brittle.
“Mom,” I said, unsure. “I can’t decide.”
“Your wedding’s next week,” she reminded me gently.
“I know,” I sighed. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“You can’t please everyone,” she said wisely.
My biological dad pushed for tradition; my stepdad had been there. The dilemma gnawed.
Finally, I chose my biological dad.
On my wedding day, halfway down the aisle, he stopped the ceremony.
“Wait!” he declared theatrically. “Let’s do this together!”
My heart sank. This wasn’t the plan.
“Dad, please,” I whispered, humiliated.
Thankfully, Mom intervened. I stood firm—this was my moment, not theirs.
“I appreciate it, Dad,” I said. “But this isn’t about grand gestures.”
Tension thickened, but Dad relented. I walked alone, head held high.
At the reception, Dad smiled proudly. Mom, quietly supportive.
Jerry R. asked for a dance. “Of course,” I said, feeling warmth.
No words were needed. Love, forgiveness, ours.
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